


The Long Way Home

by Merlicious



Category: Kingdom Hearts (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst, Background Character Death, Character Study, F/F, F/M, Fluff, Gender-Neutral Pronouns, People always forget that Xigbar/luxu/braig is like hundreds of years old, Soulmate-Identifying Marks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-02
Updated: 2021-03-02
Packaged: 2021-03-15 10:48:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29807262
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Merlicious/pseuds/Merlicious
Summary: Luxu wasn’t born with a soulmark. He really didn’t care.He wasn’t worried, but he probably would have been if he had known how long he would have to wait for his own.
Relationships: Braig (Kingdom Hearts)/Reader, Miscellaneous Background Ships, Xigbar (Kingdom Hearts)/Reader
Kudos: 13





	The Long Way Home

**Author's Note:**

> Special shoutouts to my swift beta readers - bookie, who read the first draft and Paper Chicken, who is an Aeleus lover at heart but sacrificed herself for all the Xigbar lovers out there.
> 
> Please enjoy!

Luxu wasn’t born with a soulmark. He really didn’t care.

If he closed his eyes and thought back, he could clearly picture the first time he ever discovered soulmarks. He had been no more than five, hanging onto the fabric of his mother’s skirt as she kneaded dough for fresh bread. He could hear chickens clucking from somewhere in the direction of his neighbor’s home; the distant sound of the bell in the town’s old chapel; the wood of their kitchen floor was cold under his bare feet and the smell of stew coming from the pot dangling over the nearby fire.

‘ _It can’t end like this_ ’ was a frozen, unchanging phrase in an unattractive gray on the frail skin of his mother’s arm. It was unusual for him to see her without a thick shawl covering her arms, and he was absolutely fascinated.

“It was a very long time ago,” she said, her normally loud voice oddly demure in the quiet of their tiny kitchen. She was patient as she let him run his small fingers curiously over the mark, allowing him to examine and trace the letters as much as he wanted before covering it up with her sleeve. “You’ll have one too, eventually, and it will look much different than mine.”

It wasn’t until much later - when the schoolmarm of their tiny village had a black soulmark on the back of her neck that was there one day and gone the next - that he realized that the faded gray of his mother’s mark and the permanence of its spot on her arm meant that her soulmate was dead.

He never was able to ask her if her soulmate was his biological father. He wasn’t sure if she would tell him the truth, anyway.

* * *

Luxu was seven when the first kid at his school received her soulmark. It was a big event for their class, but he couldn’t see the big deal about it.

She strolled into the classroom with her head high, a smug look on her face, and a mark across her ankle. She was subject to a variety of pokes and prods, oohs and aahs of interest at the black mark on her skin. Granted, ‘ _I wonder if mama will make soup tonight,_ ’ wasn’t the most exciting thing to see on one’s arm, but it was fascinating all the same.

“I’m gonna meet them one day!” The girl announced proudly, smiling despite the gap in her crooked smile. “My own soulmate, just for me!”

After that, soulmarks and soulmates plagued his class. Few students could think of much else. A month after the first soulmark appeared, five other kids had also received their own soulmarks, while his own skin remained mysteriously unblemished. His teacher took the time to explain for the unmarked students that most people receive their soulmarks around the ages of eight or nine, but it wasn’t uncommon for them to appear months or even _years_ later.

He wasn’t worried, but he probably would have been if he had known how long he would have to wait for his own.

* * *

Luxu turned eleven and he still didn’t have a soulmark. He still really didn’t care.

Most of the other people in his village _did_ care, though. It became a system of ‘I’ll show you mine if you show me yours’ with the children in his class - a game in which Luxu could never participate. There were soulmarks on hands and feet, on the backs of necks, twined behind ears and down calves and around wrists. Soulmarks in phrases he couldn’t understand, in languages from faraway places, phrases and words that meant nothing but caused delight in the person who had them.

Luxu never thought much of it until a boy who sat in the back of the room in their class stayed home from school for two weeks before returning with swollen, red eyes and a dull gray soulmark peeking out from the collar of his shirt. He accidentally caught a glimpse of the phrase by chance one day while passing the boy on the way out of the school. ‘ _I didn’t mean to break the vase, please_ ’ implied several horrific things about his soulmate that Luxu didn’t really want to think about, so he did his best not to stare.

They whispered about the boy a lot, eyeing him when they thought that he wasn’t looking. Even his former friends avoided him as best as they could, as if the gray of the mark was contagious and would spread to them if they weren’t careful.

He left the school not long after that, his family packing up one day without notice and moving to another town. Luxu never found out what happened to him, but he hoped that the boy found something good out of life despite his gray mark.

* * *

Luxu turned fourteen and he was one of three people in his tiny town that didn’t have a soulmark. He really didn’t care.

His teacher kept him after school several times that year for causing trouble with the other students, but she would just squeeze his shoulder and give him a pitying, understanding smile as if to say, “You’re lashing out because you don’t have a soulmark yet, this is normal and understandable.”

The elderly woman who lived next door to his childhood home sent him away with a pat on the head and a slice of pie the third time she caught him sneaking into her yard to steal eggs from her chicken coop. He would later overhear a conversation she had with his mother, who attempted to apologize for his behavior. “He’ll straighten out as soon as he gets his soulmark, dear. You just wait.”

It was absolutely infuriating, if only because no one seemed to understand.

“They’re not going to punish you no matter what you do,” Old Man Jacobi gruffly said one day, sunhat in one hand and dirty shovel in the other as he dug into the rough dirt under his feet. “That’s how they treat you when you don’t have a mark, boy. You should know that by now.”

Luxu frowned, scuffing his already dirty shoes against the ground. He tightened his grip on the broken fence post in front of him, steadying it when Old Man Jacobi gave him a stern look. “Doesn’t make it any less stupid,” he grumbled.

Luxu felt bad about ranting on his lack of soulmark to Jacobi, who was well aware of the way that being markless made a person into a social pariah. Jacobi’s reclusive farm on the edge of town was far away from anyone else, and he was sure that the old man liked it that way. Luxu liked it, too, especially since Jacobi put up with Luxu hanging around when the rest of the people in their town became too overwhelming.

“Sylvie says she’s going to leave as soon as she finishes school,” Luxu added, holding onto the shovel when Old Man Jacobi passed it over. “Wants to be somewhere big where no one knows who she is.”

Jacobi grunted. “Good for her. Both of you would do good to go somewhere different. It’s a big world out there. You’ll find a place for yourself eventually.”

Luxu sighed, but didn’t respond.

He found out the surprising news nearly a month later, sleeping late one day and not waking until his mother gently shoved at his shoulder when she came back from the market. Her eyes were soft, but her mouth was pinched thin. “Don’t go into town for the next few days, Luxu.”

“Why not?” he asked through a yawn, blinking at her sleepily.

“Your schoolmate Sylvie got her soulmark last night.”

Luxu was halfway to fifteen and one of two people in his town who didn’t have a soulmark. Then Old Man Jacobi died, left Luxu the remains of his small but sturdy farm, and he was the _only_ person in his town without a soulmark.

He might have cared a little bit.

* * *

Luxu packed up his things and moved himself and his mother into Old Man Jacobi’s farmhouse when he was sixteen.

It was a pain, but they managed to pack their meager belongings into their battered wagon and made the trek toward the farm. As the days went by without a soulmark appearing on his arm, he could almost physically feel himself becoming a social pariah. It was easier, he knew, to leave and stay away. The stares pained him and they pained his mother who rarely ventured out of the house even on the best of days.

It was difficult, but good work. He spent most of each day with his hands deep in the soil, struggling to figure out how to get the small plow attached to the wagon to till the fields. They had fresh milk and eggs and cheese nearly every day, vegetables that tasted better because they were grown by his own hand with the skills he had picked up over the years, and a decent house with a roof that didn’t leak when it rained.

But it was lonely. A lonely, solitary existence.

* * *

Luxu was eighteen when his mother died. He didn’t think much about soulmarks that year.

* * *

Luxu was twenty-one, hungover, and he still didn’t have a soulmark when he first met the man who would be known as the Master of Masters. He really didn’t care that much, until he did.

The Master of Masters was fascinating. Smart and powerful, so powerful that Luxu could practically feel the magic seeping out of his pores beneath the hood of the man’s cloak. He weaves stories like they were history and history as though they were stories, and it didn’t take much effort for him to convince Luxu to become his apprentice. After all, Luxu didn’t have much else to lose.

He left the farm, sold the animals, locked his more valuable belongings away in a safe place, and left.

He enjoyed it. He _loved_ it. The thrill, the rush, the feeling of the black keyblade in his hands that felt as though it was a part of his own flesh, an extension of his own arm. There was Ava and Aced and Gula and Invi and Ira, who was kind of an asshole, but that was fine because he could see nothing even vaguely resembling a soulmark on any of them. That didn’t mean they didn’t have any, of course, but he could pretend and being able to pretend sometimes felt like enough.

But then. But then. But then.

The Master of Masters pulled him aside one day, explaining why, exactly, Luxu was different from the other apprentices, as if Luxu hadn’t already known. Uniqueness was a gift to be used and not scorned, the Master explained, which was why Luxu was to be entrusted with a locked Black Box of secrets instead of being given a copy of the Book of Prophecies like the others.

“Our goal is to destroy the darkness,” the Master said when they parted ways for what would be an extremely long time. “It may take lifetimes - generations - to achieve, but goodness will always prevail.”

Luxu had never been one to be a blind follower, but he willingly put his heart into a cause in which he believed he could change the world, even if it would mean eventually standing against his friends for the greater good.

Which was why, eventually, Luxu would move from vessel to vessel to observe the future until he landed on a vessel named Braig, and became a new person entirely.

None of those vessels had soulmarks, either. He told himself it didn’t matter.

* * *

_Luxu_ \- Braig _\- was hundreds_ \- was twenty-five years old when he became an apprentice to Ansem the Wise. Braig did not have a soulmark, but he made everyone believe that he did. It made him uncomfortable, but he couldn’t figure out why.

Ansem introduced him to Even, whose soulmark was in a spiky script that bounced across his skin just as swiftly as Even bounced around his lab. There was Aeleus, whose soulmark often trailed along the veins of his neck or across his knuckles in long sentences that he couldn’t quite understand; Xehanort, who kept his soulmark covered - though Braig could sometimes see trails of black swirling around his palms - and Ienzo - who was too young to get his soulmark yet but liked studying those on other people - and Ansem the Wise himself.

Braig didn’t know if Ansem had a soulmark. He didn’t feel like it was appropriate to ask.

Then there was Dilan, who was significant because his soulmark was a color that Braig had never seen before. Dilan’s mark was red, so dark it almost seemed like a rivulet of blood dripping down his arm from where the words were engraved on his bicep, unmoving.

He couldn’t help himself. He stared. Dilan didn’t notice, but Aeleus did.

Hours later, Aeleus showed up at his bedroom door, a hulking figure that looked oddly soft out of his usual intimidating uniform. “You saw Dilan’s mark,” he said bluntly, arms crossed over his broad chest. “Don’t mention it to Dilan.”

Braig had to ask; the questions had been racing through his head all day. “It was red. I’d never seen one like that before. I’ve seen black and gray, but - why was it red? Is his soulmate -”

Dead? He couldn’t bring himself to finish the sentence. Even after years of learning about soulmates, the idea of mentioning a dead mark was almost taboo.

“No. She’s alive, though I don’t know where,” Aeleus said after a brief pause. “They were together. Now they aren’t. She moved on. He hasn’t.”

It makes sense, Braig supposed, thinking about Dilan’s soulmark when he was getting ready for bed that night. He wanted to ask more questions to Aeleus - to _Dilan_ \- and maybe to Even about what it meant for the person psychologically if their soulmark was red, but he didn’t think his questions would be appreciated by anyone.

* * *

Braig was in the room when Ienzo got his first glimpse at his own soulmark. He wasn’t jealous at all.

Ienzo sat at the kitchen table, legs kicking back and forth as he skimmed through a book that was much too large for his age. He waited patiently for Braig to finish making his breakfast, occasionally interjecting a random quote that he read in his book. No sooner had Braig put a bowl of oatmeal sprinkled with cinnamon in front of the boy that Ienzo was gasping. Braig turned half-heartedly, thinking that Ienzo had placed too large a spoonful of the too hot food into his mouth, but the food was untouched. Instead, Ienzo was staring wide eyed at his wrist as though it was some sort of foreign creature.

Immediately, Braig knew what had happened. “Well now, kiddo!” he exclaimed cheerfully. “Looks like today is going to be a big day for you! Congratulations!”

Ienzo, apparently unable to speak, hopped off of his chair and ran over to Braig, shoving his arm excitedly in the older man’s direction. A childish, swirling script flew across his wrist and palm. ‘ _I forgot my lunch at home!_ ’ seemed innocent enough, but Ienzo was shaking with happiness.

Braig put both hands on the boy’s shoulders and turned him bodily around so that he was facing the door. “Go tell everyone! I’m sure they’ll all be happy to see it, too!”

Breakfast forgotten, Ienzo bolted out of the room and down the hall in the direction of Ansem the Wise’s office. There was intermittent cheering and excited laughter through the rest of the day and Ienzo was positively _beaming_ more than Braig had ever seen on the small, usually stoic face. It was a pleasant, happy day.

Until dinnertime.

“... Braig, what about _your_ soulmark?”

Braig had only been half listening to the conversation happening around him, but was brought out of his thoughts when Ienzo directed the question at him.

“Ienzo, it isn’t polite to ask people about their soulmarks -” Vexen scolded lightly.

“But it’s just _Braig -_ ”

“Nah, kid,” Braig interrupted. “You can ask whatever you want, so don’t listen to Even. But I don’t really want to bring down the mood by talking about my own soulmark, so...”

An awkward silence ensued. Xehanort eyed him thoughtfully, and Dilan narrowed his eyes.

Fortunately, Ienzo was a child and children often have thoughts that move seamlessly from one to the other without interruption. When the silence became too annoying to him, Ienzo said cheerfully, “I think my soulmate is probably the prettiest, smartest person in the world, even smarter than _Even_.”

Tension unintentionally diffused, the conversation flowed onward.

Later, Xehanort stopped him on his way to his room as he was coming back from patrol. “Your soulmark,” he said instead of a greeting. “You don’t have one.”

Braig’s eyebrows shot up to his forehead and he forced himself to put on an amused, easy grin. “How’d you come to that conclusion?”

“You never speak of them,” Xehanort began, his tone almost clinical. “Even Dilan speaks of his own on occasion, though you never do. If they were dead then you would have said so. None of us have seen any moving marks on you, so the obvious conclusion was that you don’t have one.”

Something inside of him snapped, some emotion that he had been holding in for so long that he hadn’t even realized had been inside him. “And? What the fuck is it to you?”

Xehanort simply rolled his eyes. He pulled down the corner of his shirt and forcefully rubbed at the black words ‘ _two sugars, no cream_ ’ that currently took up space near his collarbone. Before Braig’s eyes, the words smeared, mixing and messing until they were nothing but an unreadable blob. _Marker_ , his brain supplied _, some kind of ink or paint. Fake mark. Fake mark._ _No mark_ _._

“I don’t have one either.”

* * *

Luxu was on a mission, Braig was somewhat a fool, but the vessel that was Xigbar told himself that everything was going according to plan. His identities mixed together at times, bleeding into each other where he sometimes didn’t know which parts were Luxu and which were Braig and which were now the new Xigbar, but one factor remained remarkably the same.

He still didn’t have a soulmark. He still really didn’t care.

The members of Organization XIII all still had their own soulmarks. He thought that the loss of a heart might have equated to a loss of a soul, but sure enough, there were still words as red as ever on Xaldin’s arm and Vexen’s mark still danced across his skin the same way it did when he was Even. Axel and Saix and Demyx and Luxord and all of the others still had black marks on their skin. Even Marluxia, whose mark was the dull gray of someone who had died, didn’t mind showing off his mark as he rolled up his sleeves and messed around with his plants.

It was maddening. It was _infuriating._ He didn’t care, really, but sometimes a ball of hatred rose from the bottom of his chest and brought bile to his throat, and he had to excuse himself from the room before he snapped at them all.

* * *

He was not Luxu. He was not Braig. He was _Xigbar_ when he was twenty-seven and received his soulmark. He really didn’t care. Or maybe he kind of did.

He woke up one cold morning with his hair in disarray and an itch on his spine that led all the way up his back and to the nape of his neck. He scratched it absentmindedly, went to shower, and didn’t give it a second thought.

Until it persisted.

He went to Vexen when the itching became too much for him to handle, when he wanted to scratch into his skin and make himself bleed if only to get the annoying feeling to go away.

“Poison oak,” he suggested to Vexen randomly, trying not to vibrate out of his skin with the feeling of wanting to _scratch_. “Or - I don’t know, whatever the hell was in that nasty gunk those heartless accidentally threw on us? Maybe I was allergic to something in that.”

Vexen sneered. “Doubtful. Now shut up and take off your shirt so I can see what the problem is.”

He did, turning so Vexen could see his back, pulling his hair away to get a better view.

Vexen was silent, which was Xigbar’s immediate hint that something was terribly wrong.

“What? What is it?”

Vexen was still quiet, which really wasn’t a good sign. Xigbar turned to find that Vexen was studying him as though he was a particularly difficult sort of puzzle, with a grin that seemed almost cruel.

“Well, well, well,” Vexen mumbled. “No allergic reactions. Something much more potent, I’d say. Congratulations,” he added, not sounding very congratulatory at all, “you have a soulmark.”

* * *

Xigbar’s first soulmark appeared on his back, trailing down his spine. The words ‘ _man, that was a good workout_ ’ were written in a small, neat print. He saw them through a mirror after spending several minutes straining his neck to see them with his own eyes.

The soulmark shifted for the first time and ended up curled across his wrist and the back of his palm. ‘ _They’re gone, they’re gone, they’re gone_ ’ repeated over and over in an odd pattern that made no sense at all.

The second shift, which brought the mark directly to the middle of his chest, almost above his heart, sent an icy chill down his back. _‘I need to do my best to help Sora._ ’

Belatedly, he realized that the thoughts of his soulmate were showing up on his skin, which meant that his thoughts were showing up on their skin as well. It was a mortifying thought. He wasn’t sure how other people functioned on a daily basis knowing that someone in the world was hearing their deepest thoughts, but he wasn’t comfortable with it. Not in the slightest.

The marks seemed to burn every time he ignored them for too long, and they were mostly mundane, everyday thoughts about nothing in particular. He knew that his soulmate was friends with Sora. He knew that they liked to cook, that they enjoyed jazz music, and that they needed to go to the store for new bandages, but there was never anything _substantial_ \- Never anything that caught his attention as being out of the ordinary. He glanced at the marks when the burning and the itching got to be too much, and ignored them when the feeling went away.

Then one day - ‘ _whoever you are, please don’t hurt my friends._ ’

Xigbar was twenty-eight when he received his soulmark. He really didn’t care.

_But he did care._

_He did. He did. He did._

* * *

Xigbar struggled to be careful with his own thoughts, but it was difficult for him to censor the thoughts that ran through his own brain. He couldn’t stop and start his thinking on a whim, so he had no control over what his potential soulmate could be hearing from him.

He tried to convince himself that he didn’t care. He also tried to convince himself that that wasn’t a complete, bald-faced lie.

He wondered sometimes why it took him so long to get a soulmark. How long had his soulmate waited to get theirs? Were they as pained as he was, wondering if they even _had_ a soulmate? Why did he even get one at all, after all this time? Why then, as Xigbar, and not as Luxu?

In the end, it truly didn’t matter. Xigbar arrived back at the castle from a reconnaissance mission one day, after an unfortunate run-in with a few people he had never seen before, to see a single word written across his hip. _‘Xigbar?’_ it read, his own name mocking against his tan skin.

He realized something that he probably already knew all along. Even if the other half of someone’s soul is supposedly out there, it didn’t necessarily equate to a happy ending.

And yeah, he was definitely one of those.

* * *

Xigbar was twenty-nine when the words _would you ever meet me in person?_ ’ end up on his skin.

His first thought, before he could stop himself, was ‘ _you wouldn’t like me, anyway._ ’ It was a mistake. He was sure that the words ended up on their skin.

He tried to tell himself it was better this way. It didn’t help.

* * *

A few days before his thirtieth birthday, Xigbar had the opportunity to be someone _old_ for the first time in several centuries. It felt refreshing. He was more Luxu than he had been in a long time, but he also had a bit of Xigbar and a bit of Braig, with odds and ends of traits from the various identities he had assumed over the years.

A few days _after_ his thirtieth birthday, Xigbar retrieves the mysterious Black Box from where he had hidden it for so long. He waited and waited and waited, until they appeared one by one. Gula and Ira and Aced and Invi, everyone but Ava, and suddenly he was no longer Xigbar again, but also not Luxu or Braig or any of the others. He was someone new and different and he couldn’t be happier.

He had an unbelievably long story to tell his friends. He didn’t even know where to start.

* * *

Luxu thought that it would be easy to let his story end there, where he could fade into history as so many have before him, but something told him that he wasn’t quite done with his own mission quite yet.

Before his journey to his final destination, Luxu wanted to stop by Radiant Garden. He didn’t. He wouldn’t be welcome and he knew it.

He tried to tell himself that it didn’t hurt.

It did.

* * *

Luxu didn’t know how old he was when he traveled back to his birthplace for the first time in several centuries.

The old town had long since been abandoned. The gardens and cobblestone pathways of his youth were overgrown with weeds and wild clover. Climbing plants and overgrown vegetation poked out through open windows and collapsed roofs. A forgotten piece of history fallen victim to age and abandonment - the perfect place for him to lay low as he completed the final part of his mission.

His small trek led him directly to the open field that held the dilapidated remains of the old farmhouse where he spent much of his time as a teenager. There was nothing but rubble in the place of where the once sturdy house stood, wooden beams leaning precariously and spotted with the telling signs of dry rot and termites. The remains of the faded red barn stood in the distance, overgrown with old crops and weeds that had taken over the space without someone keeping them at bay.

As Luxu strolled determinedly toward the house, swatting away insects and dragging the large Black Box behind him, his shoulder burned. He tugged down his sleeve so he could see the black words glaring at him from the crease between his neck and collarbone. ‘ _Help me find you,_ ’ it read.

Luxu rolled back his shoulder as his hand squeezed the handle of the Black Box. ‘ _Not yet,_ ’ he thought back. ‘ _Not yet._ ’

* * *

Luxu turned what could probably be considered thirty-three years old when the farmhouse goes from disaster-zone to almost livable. He was pretty proud of himself.

Days went by in a blur of heat and dampness, splinters tearing holes in his gloves and sweat dripping down his back. Luxu wasn’t a mechanic or a contractor or an electrician or a plumber, but he determinedly went day to day re-building the house from the ground up.

Slowly, it became something resembling an actual building. A sturdy roof, four solid walls, a bed and a dresser and an area for a kitchen and a bathroom. He could finally see the ground where the overgrown grass was trimmed and the picture in his mind steadily became a reality.

Skills he learned from Marluxia would help him plant cilantro and basil and chives, tomatoes and cucumbers and maybe a small area for potatoes. Clean water and water filtration from Demyx - a small area near a creek to make fresh drinking water. Skills from Larxene and Axel to help keep his house powered and warm. Proper pH balances from Vexen; a steady foundation from Lexaeus.

Zexion inspired a small hidden room to hide a mysterious Black Box.

Determination to continue and finish his task from Roxas.

From Xion - hope that things will turn out the way they were meant to be.

‘ _I want to see you,_ ’ burned into the edge of his thigh.

‘ _Yes, yes,_ ’ he thought. ‘ _Find me._ ’

* * *

Luxu was several centuries old when he met his soulmate for the first time.

He hadn’t been ready, until then. He wasn’t ready when he was Luxu, a carefree man living in a little town in the middle of nowhere. He wasn’t ready when he was Braig, impatient and mischievous and hiding an ulterior motive. He certainly wasn’t ready when he was Xigbar, heartless and cold and surely not worthy of whoever his soulmate was.

It was fine. He understood.

Luxu was several centuries old when he was sitting against a newly repaired fence post, looking out over the fields of his new home - the small house in the distance, the beginnings of a barn, sprouts planted in neat little rows far in front of him. He could see potential and new beginnings far and wide, a solitary place where he would wait patiently until he was once again called into action.

Luxu was several centuries old when a familiar burning appeared on his chest and the sound of footsteps on the grass steadily approached from somewhere behind him. Black words glared out at him, ‘ _it’s nice to finally meet you_ ’ as a voice behind him commented, “It was kind of rude to keep me waiting so long.”

Leaning his head back against the fence post, Luxu closed his eyes and grinned.

* * *

In a small house in the middle of nowhere, in a hidden room guarded by a one-eyed man with black and gray hair, a Black Box sat, waiting to be opened again.

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on twitter and instagram @ merliciously
> 
> Or find me on my main tumblr - queen-narcissa-malfoy - or at imagine-organization-xiii and incorrect-organization-xiii


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